


A Matching Set

by spicedrobot



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Robot Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Switching, Telepathy, Valve Play (Transformers), concept zenyatta, it's just horny there's no excuse, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-30 03:31:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19033891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicedrobot/pseuds/spicedrobot
Summary: Zenyatta has never been known to refuse one in need, even if their request is...unexpected.





	A Matching Set

****When the large omnic beelines across the busy Numbani streets towards Zenyatta’s makeshift shrine, the monk doesn’t know what to expect. Omnics of all types and models came to see him, some to scoff or question, others to seek aid or offer it. Their reasons rarely surprised, but as Zenyatta channels harmonious energy into his current, injured visitor, he wonders if this newcomer’s will.

Leather clad, scuffed, twice as wide as a civilian model and towering over nervous passersby, the newcomer is only deceptively intimidating. He waits patiently behind the small queue of the shrine’s visitors, twiddling his fingers as he watches Zenyatta with optics that never quite reach the monk’s array. By the time Zenyatta sweeps his many hands in front of him and ushers the omnic forward, a bead of oil slides down his faceplate, his optics following the shifting lines of Zenyatta’s arms.

“What is it you seek, brother?”

The omnic avoids looking at his face, instead recording the ground, his shoulders hunching as he fidgets.

“There is no need to be shy.”

Zenyatta extends one of his hands. The omnic stares at his upturned palm, the green glint of his optics expanding. Hesitation from such an imposing figure is strange indeed, but not strange enough to shake him. Slowly, he slots his hand over Zenyatta’s, just as large but nearly double in thickness, warm and smooth. Minute vibrations reach Zenyatta’s sensors; the motion of the other’s hand trembling ever so slightly.

With a flare of his array, Zenyatta grants sharing permissions, and the omnic’s — B.O.B’s — consciousness touches his own.

“Oh, I see,” Zenyatta says, fingers interlacing with B.O.B.’s. “That I am able to provide.”

B.O.B. startles when Zenyatta leads him by the hand, the monk’s shoulders softly shifting in silent laughter. The space is tight inside the shrine, not quite meant for large models, but it conceals them well enough. It’s quiet and warm when Zenyatta reaches behind his companion to close the door.

B.O.B.’s arms remain limp at his sides, and again his optics dart around, not knowing where to look.

“Be at peace. There is no judgement here.”

Two hands slip from behind Zenyatta’s frame and grasp B.O.B.’s wrists. He lets himself be moved easily, the gentle, stubborn tremble that plagues his chassis intensifying as Zenyatta settles B.O.B.’s hands on his own hip struts. The monk tips his head as the other’s fingers tighten around him, array flashing one light at a time. He studies B.O.B.’s faceplate, one hand cupping around the strong jut of his chin, the heavy curve of his chest, hard and warm. His hands trail down the omnic’s chassis, unbuckle his belt while his others touch and explore to his fill. In that singular moment of connection, B.O.B. had painted this scene, sweet and dark, tinted by a desire more human than most of their type. Upgraded, the how and why unimportant, not Zenyatta’s to know. Not now.

The omnic shakes on his feet when Zenyatta depresses his panel with a few deft clicks, a thick, synthetic cock nearly too large to grasp fully sliding hot and eager across the sensor of his palm.

“My…” Zenyatta hums, curling his fingers around it, judging its girth. “I hope this is not your normal state, my friend.”

B.O.B. shakes his head as steam billows from his vents, and Zenyatta laughs, deep and pleased. A second hand joins the first as he begins to stroke, caressing what the other does not reach, leaning closer when a noise rumbles from B.O.B.’s primitive synth, hard and crackled. Coolant slickens Zenyatta’s fingers, the slide of B.O.B.’s cock smooth and satisfying, startlingly responsive. It is not often that one of his size is outfitted which such an attachment, and just as the thought forms Zenyatta realizes the truth to it.

A third hand joins the others, cupping the end of B.O.B’s length, a tumid space to fill and rock into, his cock trapped completely by the monk’s hands while his others are busy elsewhere, sliding between the seams of B.O.B.’s chestplate, tracing ports along his side that spark and sizzle against the smooth tips of his fingers. Still B.O.B.’s own hands stay upon Zenyatta’s hips, grip flexing between too tight and crushing. Strong. It’s not many that had the power to compromise his structural integrity, and Zenyatta’s array brightens, blinding and sudden in the steam.

“You will make a mess of me like this,” Zenyatta whispers.

B.O.B.’s whole frame shudders, the first, unsure snap of the omnic’s hips surging into the channel of his hands. The plip of coolant landing on the floor is lost beneath the gentle creaking of machinery, the hiss of steam, the muffled sound of life outside, only a thin, quickly cobbled structure between them and the rest of the world.

Zenyatta’s touches slow, not teasing, not on purpose, as other hands slip away and fist into his skirts, drawing the threadbare cloth up and up until it bunches at his waist, revealing saffron and silver paneling, thick and sturdy. There is no mistaking where B.O.B.’s optics record then, narrowed and unmoving as Zenyatta traces one hand over the plating between his thighs.

“Can you lift me? Then I ma—“ His synth glitches as his feet leave the ground in an instant. “Eager. No, I am not angry.” Zenyatta murmurs as B.O.B. tips his head down. “Your enthusiasm is touching.”

He supposes he’s to blame for such urgency, tugging and teasing B.O.B.’s cock while he gives a gentle command.

“It is fortunate we are alike.” 

Zenyatta slides his legs around B.O.B.’s back, positioning himself as much as he can as he depresses his own panel. His cock slides out just as readily as his companion’s did, slick trailing down its glowing, segmented length. Beneath is flushed and primed too, and he gently urges B.O.B. closer with his hands upon his cock. “Here you can make as much of a mess as you like.”

Zenyatta can almost feel the other’s processors whirring, the steam blocking their vision for several seconds, Zenyatta’s shaky laughter following on its notes as he kisses B.O.B.’s cock to the opening between his legs.

“Hurry. I want to feel you.”

He had forgotten just how long it had been, having a partner of a similar size. The first press of B.O.B.’s cock barely breeches him, then slides north against his panels, both of them hissing with contact lost, Zenyatta’s hands quickly repositioning his cock once more, stroking, goading, only one step ahead of his own want. Pressure, re-calibration, both overheated, systems struggling to keep up in less than ideal conditions, hands all over B.O.B.’s body, scrabbling for purchase when he slides inside, thick and unbelievably filling every inch of his port. Zenyatta steams, a set of hands planting on B.O.B.’s shoulders, another clutching the base of his own dick, too late to alter his own sensitivity levels, especially when B.O.B. begins to thrust, two pinpoints of green burning into him through the gloom.

The snap of their bodies is loud and wet, pace controlled by the omnic rutting into him; had anyone had been strong enough to hold Zenyatta, to fuck him like this before? His mind is slow to recall, supplying instead the taste of information that B.O.B. had given him, one who could not take another without concern for pain or injury. Kindred, Zenyatta’s processors supply, and the word clings, makes his hands greedier, wilder, touching wherever he can, pressing and searching, wanting to give what most could not. Sliding hands along B.O.B.’s quaking thighs, beneath his cock, smooth and almost burning to the touch, wet with their coupling and B.O.B.’s own port, empty and swollen.

He teases against him, fingers gliding smooth, dipping inside, his chassis nearly buckling under B.O.B.’s grip as he tugs Zenyatta onto his cock again and again, using him with an abandon he could never have before. More. Harder. His own selfishness has his legs sealing tight around B.O.B. in return, clenching, wanting, fingers thrusting into the twitching mess; the noise B.O.B. makes is brutally low, like grating gears, and for a moment, Zenyatta worries—

—and then doesn’t have the capacity to do so, thrusts so fast he cannot tell where they start or stop, the impossible wave of pleasure coursing through him, a flash of filling heat, a struggle, a stumble as thrusts grow erratic, each punctured by a short, grinding cry.

He cannot contain all that B.O.B. gives, and it pools from around his cock, messing the steamed metal of his inner thighs, his own cock twitching dangerously as the other pumps him full. Lost momentarily, Zenyatta groans when B.O.B.’s fingers glance over his own, trying to work the monk’s cock while still buried to the hilt himself. Zenyatta wants it, to spill over those huge hands, to groan and twist and lose himself even as a queue of visitors surely gathers outside.

“W-wait,” Zenyatta manages. “H-here.” His fingers, still half-buried in B.O.B.’s port, curl and press deeper, his insides hot and clinging. “Do you wish for me here?”

The other hikes Zenyatta up, both exhaling at the shift, faceplates together, touching, green into blue.

“T-then. How would you prefer?” B.O.B.’s hand finds his own, lights flared. “Okay.”

B.O.B. lowers him, Zenyatta gasping as the other draws out, fluids dribbling down his panels, the loss of him quickly replaced by something equally enticing. The floor is more cramped than standing, but it’s just enough room for Zenyatta to lie back, for B.O.B. to ease his knees apart and reach for Zenyatta’s cock. His quiet companion makes another deep, mechanical sound, chassis stuttering.

“Ssh. Let me.”

Two hands grasp B.O.B.’s hips, another grips his own cock, steadying, leading. B.O.B. groans, sound cracking high as he sinks onto him, aching heat swallowing Zenyatta in a single motion. Their bodies lock together, fingers intertwining in turn, connecting again, ushering away his worry.

“I can hold you. You are not so heavy,” Zenyatta whispers.

B.O.B.’s consciousness brightens, happiness, awe, an undercurrent of pleasure as Zenyatta moves him, his other hands cupping B.O.B.’s backside, his thighs, touching his cock, tumid, pearled and leaking.

The monk takes him slowly but forgets himself just as quickly, hungry for his sounds, his quiet, alien whines, the quaking of his large body quickening his motions. B.O.B. leaks over Zenyatta’s hands, stains his skirts and gleams on his metal, a strange, possessive bite shocking through Zenyatta’s processes, an emotion B.O.B. reads immediately and reflects back at him, spilling hot with only a handful of thrusts and a few lazy touches to his cock.

Zenyatta hums, synth crackling, tracing over slick mess gleaming on his chassis with an idle hand.

“You made a mess after all.”

B.O.B. groans and begins to move on his own, replacing any remaining quips Zenyatta had planned with a soft gasp.

The afternoon disappears as they have one another in all the ways they can. Fingers twist into wires, bodies turn, lower, offer and claim, even as their systems’ effectiveness diminish, warning messages ignored as steam and heat builds and builds, touches grown sloppy and uninhibited.

Only when several loud pings echo from B.O.B.’s synth do they finally still their sluggish shifting, watching each other with dimmed, blinking lights.

“You must go,” Zenyatta sighs, several sets of hands cupping B.O.B.’s faceplate softly before slipping away. “We have left your partner waiting quite a while.”

B.O.B. rubs his neck, but leans in when Zenyatta does, pressing their faceplates together.

“I will be here for many weeks more. Return if you have the time.”

B.O.B. intertwines their fingers and nods with a slow dip of his head.


End file.
